The Gift
by Silver Diva
Summary: Erik received a very special gift from an unexpected source. A pre-Christmas present to those who enjoyed Hearts in the Wind.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: _September 27, 1899 - Paris, France_**

Father Tribidoux smiled warmly as he was greeted by the solemn, blue clad sister at the entry to the convent infirmary. Removing his rain-drenched hat and coat, he shook them carefully and handed them to the sister, who added them to those hanging on a row of iron hooks behind the door. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were soft voices and light in the kitchen down the narrow hall to his left, and the scent of baking bread. Briefly he considered a detour to request a cup of tea to chase the chill of his journey across Paris, but in recalling the gravity of his visit, he decided to wait until he had returned to the rectory.

The broad hallway before him was ill-lit, yet he knew his way to the room where his parishioner waited, having spent many hours there in the past weeks. Tonight's summons had not come unexpected; the occupant of the last room on the right had taken a turn for the worst in the past days, and Father Tribidoux knew her sojourn on life's 'mortal coil' was nearly done.

Sister Joseph met him before the door, whispering a quick report on their patient's condition, adding, "She refused to wait, demanding you come tonight! I told her it was late and the weather miserable…told her you could certainly be here in the morning! But she..."

Tribidoux hushed the sister, saying, "She may be called to God before the morning. There is obviously something distressing her...some last worrisome request. She has been a constant and generous patron for the parish. I can do no less than guarantee she is at peace." Laying a soothing hand upon the sister's shoulder, he pushed open the door and entered the small, whitewashed room. Easing himself into the chair beside the bed, he clasped the gnarled hand of its occupant.

With a start, the woman lying there twisted her head to look at the priest, eyes wild and greying auburn hair pulled from its braids. Grabbing for his coat sleeve, she gasped, "Father...Father, I...I need to confess my sins."

Bending to her, Tribidoux patted her clutching hands. "My dear, you are confessed and forgiven by God. Unless you have sinned grievously since arriving within these four walls..."

"No, no Father. It was before...years ago." Sudden tears sprung from the woman's eyes, and she sobbed convulsively, saying, "I murdered a man. I killed him and allowed another to die for the crime. I murdered them both, it seems..." Her body quaking with weakness, terror and grief, she covered her face with tremulant hands.

Father Tribidoux sat back in the chair, stunned. He had known this woman for years, had brought her to God, keeping the secret of her disreputable life among the demimonde as an opera singer. He had urged her to return to her birth name and native French language.

So it was that Maria Estena Jourdain had taken a position as an aide/volunteer with the street clinic that daily visited the poorest areas of Paris, caring for the sick and homeless. Within two years she had met and married one of the volunteer doctors, Etienne Orand, an event at which Tribidoux officiated, held at St. Bertold's, the small Catholic church for which he served. This was a union of mutual and mature affection, both Maria and Etienne being beyond the age of undisciplined passions. Orand was a very rich man, possessor of a sizeable fortune along with a fine estate in western Paris, who had tired of being a work-driven bachelor. Maria had caught his eye while serving at the clinic; her modest demeanor and selfless nature contrasted widely with the usual society women 'of a certain age' who routinely all but threw themselves beneath the wheels of his carriage to draw his eye.

And Maria had flourished in her role as Orand's wife, and eschewing the brittle life of a society matron, she continued her volunteer work with the clinics.

Tribidoux had also buried her husband a very few years later, the good doctor succumbing during a city-wide epidemic of the Spanish influenza. Those were dark days indeed for the indomitable spirit that was Maria Orand.

Left without children, husband, or extended family, Madam Orand had redoubled her generosity toward her beloved St. Bertold Church, along with her energy as a advocate for the impoverished in the parish. She organized several day schools for the youngest children in poor neighborhoods, sponsored soup kitchens and bread lines, provided the start-up funding for a subsequently successful women's sewing cooperative, and still worked tirelessly at several of the parish medical clinics. Orphanages in the area knew Madam Orand well, the children clapping with joy to see her carriage pull up before their doors, bearing shoes, clothing, books and fresh fruit.

This was a woman of virtue, who once her feet had found the path of righteousness, had bloomed in the warmth of a godly life. Surely such a heart and soul were pure, bearing no stain of wickedness!

Yet Father Tribidoux knew that each life was a mystery to all but oneself and God. Looking at the dying woman who wept in mortal fear of God's judgment, he knew he had best take her request at face value, and believe that she saw herself as a murderer twice over.

Laying his hand upon the forehead of the troubled woman, Tribidoux sought to console her, saying, "_Non, non_, Maria…it hurts me to see you so beset. Tell me of this crime, and we will seek God's forgiveness. All things are surmountable in His eyes, my child. I will take your confession now, so you might go before God with peace in your heart."

"Yes...yes, Father, I must confess! But I must also reveal all to Christine Daaé...remove the stain I cast upon the man she knew as friend and father. Her teacher... He died by the guillotine, you know...lost his head for the death of my faithless lover. But I am the one who killed Piangi...he was the true monster..._but I am the one who killed him_!"

Turning to the wide-eyed cleric beside her, Maria Orand again grabbed at his sleeve. "The Opera Ghost was innocent, Father. But I hated him...for giving Daaé those things I wanted. A voice of such beauty...a talent that rivaled that of the angels. Father...I envied Christine Daaé his attentions."

Abruptly Madam Orand sang, her voice eerily pure and sweet. "_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime… Lead me, save me from my solitude…_" Reduced to hiccupping sobs, Maria Orand twisted and fiercely clutched upon his arm, her yellowed nails snagging upon the wool fabric of his sleeve. Her voice harsh, she gasped, "And then he saved _me_...from starvation...from utter ruin! After the theater closed, Erik de'Carpentier…the Opera Ghost sent money...a great deal of money...so that I might not end up in the street. He _saved me_, Father...as well as every one of those who lost their jobs that night. Yet I did not save de'Carpentier. I allowed him to die for the murder I committed!"

Madam Orand collapsed upon the bed, her hands releasing Tribidoux so abruptly he nearly pitched backward off the chair. Father Tribidoux was in shock, now well aware of what…and of whom Maria Orand was speaking. 'Le Petit Parisien' had recently carried a much abridged version of Gaston Leroux's dark tale, '_Le Fantôme de l'Opéra', in a weekly_ serialized column. Tribidoux had quite enjoyed it, having an affinity for mysteries, especially those based upon real events. But never in his wildest dreams…

Eventually her sobbing eased, and Maria Orand pushed herself up to half-sit upon the bed, and raised her rattled face to the silent cleric beside her bed. "Father, I wish to take confession, but I also want to tell the truth to...to Christine Daaé…the Comtess de'Chagny. I would make things right before I...I die. I will never rest easy in my grave...will never go to God...if I do not. Christine deserves to know her teacher did not murder Umbalto Piangi. She deserves to know her Angel was no monster."

Father Tribidoux looked into the face now turned to his, the pure light of purpose obscuring the yellow cast to her skin and eyes...the specter of her impending death. Maria Orand would have her confession immediately, as he was sure she would not live to see morning's light. He rose and left the room, returning with a small desk containing paper, ink, quills. "I will write what you tell me, Maria."

Laying back upon her pillows, Maria Orand clasped her hands at her breast, and began to speak.

"My name is Maria Estena Orand, but for many years I was known as Carlotta Giudiccelli, Prima Donna for the Opera Populaire.

"_I confess before God, with Father Arlo Tribidoux as my witness and scribe, that on the evening of November 11, 1881, during the first and only performance of 'Don Juan Triumphant', I murdered Umbalto Piangi…"_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

December 23, 1899

_(Erik)_

For the tenth time I look out the window at the blowing snow, driven by a brisk wind howling down from Scotland. I hate winter, especially winter in Britain, cursing the hour we landed on the English coast. Why the Normans had ever found it worthwhile to invade the wretched island, I would never know!

I turn away to move closer to the fireplace, with its ox-sized hearth, overcome by a chill that only the sight of wind-driven snow can impart. Over the mantle hangs a large, very fine Gengembre Anderson of young titan-tressed nymphs in diaphanous clothing gamboling about in a summer garden. It is a very lovely piece, and Mademoiselle Sophie does have the magic touch with flesh tones. I cannot help feeling that the painting is a trifle depressing, however, so greatly at odds with the present English climate.

"Stop brooding, my love." A rose-scented vision sweeps through the room, gowned in jewel green silk with fiery rubies at her ears and encircling her long, elegant neck. The current fashions suit my wife; her gown follows her body from breast to hip in an unconsciously provocative manner, to fall straight to the floor in artfully casual draping. There is just enough of her luminescent flesh displayed at shoulder and nape to tempt my hands and lips.

My dark and troubled thoughts fade in the glory of her beloved form in the elegant Worth gown. Released from my bitter thrall, I feel tense muscles ease and my sorry visage lose its demonic scowl.

Yet I cannot stop a quick wave at the window, and the wintry scene without. "Look at the weather, Aislyne. I am concerned for the de'Chagny's. And the boy insists on driving that cursed motorcar himself. Any other time it would be merely vexing, but tonight..."

"'The boy'? Erik, _must _you?"

With a roll of her fine eyes, she moves past me to the window, leaning forward to look at the snow-obscured streets below. "I believe the Comte' is skilled enough to handle a little snow. He has been driving the thing for…what, a year now?"

The wind is piling drifts against the tall hedges that surround our hotel, but horse-drawn vehicles, are traversing the streets without problem so far.

Aislyne's fingers grip the drapes white-knuckled, her other hand fretting at the crimson silk roses at her waist, revealing her own disquiet. She cannot fool me! Her voice has the tiniest bit of edge…"Why do you insist on calling de'Chagny 'the boy?"

"It strikes me as an acceptable way to speak of one still in their youth, especially when the speaker is naught but a museum relic himself." (A bit of self-deprecation never hurts when called upon the carpet for one's missteps.) Shaking my head in apparent lack of understanding, I add _sotto voce_, "Why you find it so objectionable, Aislyne, I will never comprehend." I 'harrumph' for good measure, then peek warily in her direction to see how she takes this.

Her gentle sigh is as eloquent as any lecture. "Yes, well, the 'boy' is near 40, and has surely earned either your respect and regard by now…or not. Could you not refer to him by his name, 'Raoul', or at worst, 'de'Chagny?"

Turning from the window her expression is that of Erik's 'armed nanny', sternly unsmiling, having delivered the required reproof. Yet her hand immediately finds my unrepentant face, and cupping the gristly, gnarled flesh of my right cheek, her eyes seek mine, brimming with love, tempered sweetly with humor. Her thumb sweeps my ruined cheekbone, even as she clucks at my frail defense.

Thus she is always touching me: a stroke upon an arm, a caress along my jaw, or just her fingers brushing mine. To a being who once avoided the naked touch of any living thing, I now glory in the feel of her body against mine. With woman's magic I have been tamed, utterly transformed…and thus become a man.

But it is always upon the right side of my face that she has lavished the sweetest attention. Her lips, hands, the silken skin of her cheeks have burnished every ropy scar and pitted divot with love's healing. I never noticed the little changes she made that cleared and healed the raw places between the scars, relieved the constant pain from my malformed cheekbone. With her encouragement I sought medical assistance for the problem with my right eye, severing the attachment that had progressively pulled the bottom lid away from its normal position. Similar attention was given to the open defects in my nose, closing them completely.

And although my face will never be entirely normal in form or function, I can say it no longer causes me pain to wear it. I am positive that such cannot be said of those who must look upon it!

There was a time I might have questioned Aislyne's attentions. I had confided in her early in our acquaintance the effect the facial deformity along with my wickedly exaggerated history had on certain women. Aislyne assured me such was not the case for her, having viewed it as nothing beyond that of the man who had eventually stolen her heart. And she frequently reminded me, "Because you love it not at all, I will bestow double that I give the rest of you. Someday you will relent, and love it as well."

Teasing her, I then inquire, "Will all of me then enjoy twice the loving?"

Many women have professed to want me because of my face. Only one has loved me, and doubly loved that which I cannot. Only one...

Looking now into the fire-lit depths of her golden green eyes, I am moved to cover that loving hand with my own, turning to kiss her palm, and then nip the pad of flesh at the base of her thumb. Her response is to move closer and bury her nose into my neck, no doubt disarranging my collar and necktie.

"Museum relic, indeed!" she murmurs, her lips warm upon my earlobe, her unencumbered hand moving up inside my vest. "You, my dear, are but one attractively mature male. There is certainly nothing 'antique' here…" I jump and giggle when her fingers graze past my left nipple...

…then firmly clear my throat as I have just noticed the scandalized housekeeper, Mrs. McIntyre, standing at the drawing room door. Aislyne looks over her shoulder, then gently disengages from our embrace, but not without stealing one more kiss, and a quick clandestine nip at my chin... I retuck my shirt and straighten my tie, grinning sheepishly.

Turning to Mrs. McIntyre, Aislyne becomes all that is charming, dazzling the woman yet again with her benevolent warmth and hand-patting. I have on occasion accused my wife of being a fraud after such displays, knowing her for the emotionally constipative personality that she is… A charge to which she takes extreme exception.

"It is never more than common courtesy and a genuine wish to create good will. Cold arrogance, lofty elitism, and a sense of entitlement do little to motivate those around you to give a farthing about your comforts."

Which is why I allow her to deal with the staff in the myriad hotels and temporary residences in which we have found ourselves over the years. Somehow I cannot believe that hand-patting and warm chatter on my part would invite other than mass panic amongst the help.

Both women move out of the room, and I again wander toward the window, to scowl at the raging storm without. The clock on the mantle chimes eight times.

They are late by an hour; for more than an hour they have been out in this weather, away from the warmth and safety of their hotel or ours. I am assuming, of course, that the telephone call from the concierge at their hotel was not premature…

Aislyne again appears beside my reflection in the window, a shimmering goddess limned in firelight . "McIntyre put dinner back another half-hour, but will have fresh coffee and cocoa ready for their arrival."

Inelegantly I grunt, then say, "Why did we not go to their hotel? What madness compelled us to send them out into this hellish weather just to visit us?"

Her hand grasps mine. "To be fair, I do not think we were given a choice, _a stór_."

"Then perhaps I should go out and look for them, Aislyne. What if they are in a ditch somewhere, if she or the children are injured!"

Giving voice to my anxiety increases it. I know this, yet cannot help but say what is omnipresent in my thoughts. I look to Aislyne, seeking her support, her comfort, catching a ghost of these same fears on her face. Consciously, she works hard to school her expression, and I know it is because I am behaving like a querulous old woman that she feels she needs to do so.

Speaking firmly to the window, she says, "You may certainly send a couple of our men out to check the roads between here and the Haddison Arms, if you wish. But you will not be out in this yourself. It has not been three weeks since the most unamusing little 'episode' you suffered when cornered by that journalist, Leroux..."

"Pooh!" I growl and screw my face into a suitable expression of major irritation. "A moment of faintness, only, caused by my infinite annoyance at the man's outrageous accusations." I glare in reflective memory cursing, "The twice-damned little poof…"

Her expression remains implacable, and an eyebrow wings heavenward at my language. "Since when does swooning accompany your fits of distemper?"

I dislike it intensely that she now worries about my health...as well as being thought the least bit helpless. Assuming an aggressively masculine posture, I pull her tightly against me, to whisper, "I am but an attractively mature male, a masterful lover, all that is manly strength and sensitivity." I see a bit of pink color flush across her chest and cheeks at that last bit. Aislyne becomes quite verbose in the throes of the marital embrace. "I have that on the best authority…" I croon into her lovely pink ear.

I am given yet another lingering kiss for my troubles, and Aislyne then crisply demands I behave. "The housekeeper must find us outrageous, the way we are constantly draped upon one another!"

"_Non_. We act as we are…a beautiful woman with a doting, attentive, and vigorously _healthy _husband. I am well, Aislyne…never doubt it!" I pull her to me, seeking her lips, my hands sliding towards her derrière...

And grabbing my hands she steps back and looks narrowly at my self-satisfied smirk. "Nonetheless, you will not be haring off into this storm. We can afford to allow others to perform that task, and pay them well to do so. I do not see it as anything either of us need do.

"I did not suggest _you_ do so, my love. I would have our driver, and the traveling coach…"

"Where you go, I go." Her gaze becomes steady…challenging.

Damn the woman...hobbling me with words we vowed to one another all those years ago…

Yet her reminder does not require I capitulate easily. "I should resent the implication that a bit of snow and cold is anything dangerous. I tell you, woman, there is nothing wrong with Erik. He is as hale as an ox!" I thump heartily on Erik's well-muscled chest to emphasize the point.

Aislyne's expression becomes just a trifle patronizing. "Yes, Erik, and it is my sincere wish to keep Erik thus!"

"Your wish? Dear lady, you were hired to be my nurse! It is your duty!"

With a look both thoughtful and wickedly sly, my lovely wife taps gently upon her chin, saying, "I am now reminded I have kept you nicely engaged and out of his hair for over 16 years. Perhaps I should request a bonus from de'Chagny."

"Avaricious scold."

"Lout!"

"Baggage!"

"Ill-tempered curmudgeon!"

We engage in a factitious display of mutual umbrage, but I cannot help but mouth the word, '_curmudgeon_?' My sweet bride laughs at my lacerated ego. Our byplay earns us both another kiss.

There are voices in the hall, particularly that of Mr. McIntyre, the housekeeper's spouse and the butler...who is exceedingly deaf and therefore loud. I hear Zophia's sweet _soprano-soubrette_, obviously excited, chattering with McIntyre in French...not a word of which the man understands or hears. 'Mac' is a kind soul, however, and produces thunderously abrupt, appreciative grunts at semi-appropriate intervals.

The _lyric-tenor_ is Charles, who is apparently arguing with his mother; she declares, "I do not believe you will be spending time in the hotel stables this evening, young man! We did not come here to admire horses, Charles!" At the tender age of 14 summers, Charles' whine of protest is high-pitched and sustained. Zophia's clear voice chides her brother, in English, stating firmly, "Oh, Charlie, don't be such a babeeee!"

Finally Raoul de'Chagny, cursing the weather along with Aaron, the firstborn, who at sixteen years has lately attained his adult voice, a _spinto-tenor_, with the occasional squeak. At this time, he sounds exactly like his father; another pompous, self-assured French autocrat.

I look to Aislyne, to find her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Are you ready for this, _mo chroí_?"

Clasping my hand with both of hers, she assures me, "Into the fray, _m'eudail!"_

Greetings and hugs, sweetened with Zophia's shy kisses are exchanged, and I find myself once again in the presence of my beautiful Christine and her family. Events of the past two years have required meetings with the de'Chagnys several times with lawyers in tow, those meetings more war councils than family celebrations. However, no unpleasant harassment by one fat, short journalist clouds our time tonight. As far as I know, the de'Chagny's are in England for other reasons; we are but a side stop for them.

The first time Aislyne and I visited the de'Chagnys was in Italy, at the small estate in Tuscany…it was in March of 1889, I believe. Despite the fact that Erik de'Carpentier was dead and buried in France, Erik Woodman and his lovely wife, Aislyne Woodman still did not wish to stand on French soil.

The occasion was the marriage of the peculiar woman Aislyne had chosen as Christine's nurse and companion…to Monteque Abriguan.

Aislyne cursed the man the entire journey by rail from Venice to Levorno, becoming quite inventive in ways to relieve Abrigaun of both his head and his manhood. It was provident we traveled in a private car.

Sometime very soon upon our arrival to Petite Maison De'Chagny, the groom must have exchanged glances with Aislyne; thereafter he appeared rather wide-eyed and wary any time my wife entered the same room. It would have been comical had I not been a near casualty of Abrigaun's attempt to turn the severed head of the Opera Ghost into a great deal of Persian gold.

It was with a great deal of frustration that in the final hours prior to our arrival to Levorno Aislyne agreed to allow this particular sleeping dog to lie (or _live_, as the case could well be). We decided never to speak of the activities de'Chagny's (former) tame attorney got up to in Lyon, France. Should the man ever find himself outside France and within arms reach of my bride, however, my regrets to his widow.

Nonetheless, after a flurry of letters back and forth between Italy and France, Christine and Aislyne chose that particular occasion for the first reunion, with Raoul de'Chagny's conditional approval.

The reunion was far more than I could ever have wished. Christine and I found again the innocent affection shared by the child and her reclusive angel, reborn into that of a young woman and her 'Papa Angel'. There was miraculous healing for us both…as well as several opportunities for duets. We both admitted to the curious sense of things falling into place, of our roles finally solidifying into that which was meant to be: teacher and student...mentor and protégé…father and daughter.

After that week in Tuscany, I added three souls to the growing list of those I loved without reservation: Aaron, Charles and baby Zophia. Despite my initial reticence, each drew me in with their total acceptance of the man with the gargoyle face. To them I was not 'monstrous'; I was Mama's Papa Angel with the "hurt" on my face. In such fashion these three infants proved that which Aislyne had preached and impressed upon me for years: my face was of small importance...if I let it be so.

Aaron, just days shy of his sixth birthday, was inquisitive without being unkind, gently exploring the ridges and shattered planes of my face with fingers redolent of the family dog and the orange shared with him by Aislyne. After I had explained the deformity to him, he never asked, or indeed, seemed to notice it again.

Charles was oblivious to it after his initial inspection. He seemed happy to take his cues from his older brother and mother, feeling the rough, corded flesh with sure, gentle fingers in fleeting curiosity. With a final pat, he then inquired whether I had a horse, wherein our conversation went far afield from the scrutiny of my unfortunate features. The relationship forged with Charles was then secured upon my exploits...real and/or heavily embroidered...as an accomplished horseman, tales of Persia figuring large.

Little Zophia was but a babe in arms at the time of our first meeting, and I will admit I was smitten immediately. Zophia was all chubby satin skin and thick black curls, with a face that filled my sketches for months to follow.

I did not figure much into her happy existence until I sang to her… Actually, I was singing with Christine a few of the lullabies I had written for Aaron when he was but a newborn. Christine mentioned Zophia most enjoyed being sung to, so it seemed natural to do so.

Leaning over to look down into the rapt face of Zophia while Christine and I twined our voices in joint harmony, I was presented with two upraised arms, and one patently demanding grunt. Continuing to sing, I looked to Zophia's mother for guidance as to her child's behavior; Christine lifted her frantically semaphoring off-spring...and pressed her into my arms. Settling herself against my chest, Zophia bracketed my face with her tiny, slightly sticky hands, and watched my mouth with disconcerting intensity.

Henceforth I became Zophia's personal _chanteur, _expected to perform at her frequent demand. Christine and Aislyne were openly amused at my inability to free myself gracefully from my servitude...Zophia's eyes would snap quite fiercely, and inchoate yet obviously damning invective would poor forth from her rosebud lips should I fail to perform as requested. A few moments of her scolding, and I sang to keep the peace and appease my master.

Raoul de'Chagny, however, was made of sterner...more unforgiving…stuff, proving to be the scowling death's head at the love feast. He was unhappy with my presence in Italy; he was outraged with my singing with Christine, and called me out...yes!...to settle our differences _mano y mano_.

That is until my meddling mate took him in hand, apparently dragging him to the barn for a few cogently-expressed words. It was not one hour later he returned, much chastened, and asked my pardon for his churlish behavior. A handshake and murmured apology was the best we both could do...for the moment. I can report that our relations have much improved with each meeting.

Our subsequent visits made to the Tuscan coast were so enjoyable that it has become a 'family vacation' for us to meet them in Tuscany for a few precious weeks during the 'off season' summer months. It is at these times that I have grown to know…and deeply love…my beautiful grandchildren, for that is how I think of them.

Looking at them now, I see Aaron Phillip, firstborn and the current Vicompte de'Chagny, has grown yet another few inches. His manner is somber, and I wonder what has put the pugilistic wrinkle upon his fine, wide forehead. Perhaps the weight of his sixteen years weighs heavy.

Charles Rex is apparently still horse crazy, having not yet outgrown this at fourteen. He and Aislyne connected strongly for this reason, as Charles rides at every opportunity. We were able to take Charles to Ireland for several days out with the Ballymacad Hunt of Oldcastle in County Meath, wherein Aislyne shared with Charles the art and beauty of the foxhunt. Tuscany offering nothing even approaching that, she has taught him her special brand of horse-handling. It has certainly steadied the boy, and given him confidence and purpose…something that is frequently lacking in second sons.

Zophia Louise at ten years is Christine reborn, right down to the beauty of her voice. She wishes to be an opera singer, something that makes Raoul and I both grind our teeth, and gives Christine hours of worry. It is my fault, as last year Aislyne and I took Zophia to a gala production of '_Béatrice et Bénédict_' at the _Teatro Pagliano_, in Florence, with Renée Vidal as Béatrice and Emanuele Lafarge as Bénédict. Zophia was entranced by the music, the singing, the story. In an unguarded moment soon thereafter, Christine told Zophia that I had once been her singing teacher, and this last summer Zophia had been relentless in demanding that I teach her to sing. I have given her several voice lessons, and a heavy repertoire of vocal exercises meant to wear the shine off the entire idea.

Christine stands in the doorway, Zophia and Charles before her, de'Chagny and Aaron behind. I feel my face become that of a grinning gargoyle, as such relief rushes through my body at the sight of them, followed by the tiniest spurt of anger at de'Chagny.

Aislyne reads my mind...did I mention that? She immediately spikes my guns by moving forward to grasp Christine's hands, saying "Thank heavens you are here...we were so worried because of the weather." She soundly kisses Christine and Zophia, then embraces de'Chagny, declaring "But we knew you would take good care."

Of course, I have my arms full of Zophia, and then Christine steps into them, and all is forgotten, forgiven. I look to Aislyne, wishing to share my joy in this moment with her, and our eyes meet and we exchange delighted smiles.

She made this possible, all of it.

And Raoul...watching Aislyne and me...noticeably relaxes, saying, "We drove over to Trafalgar Square to see the Christmas presentations, but we did tell the concierge at the Haddison to let you know. I misjudged the time, however..." His expression is sheepishly conciliatory, and I cannot help but share my happy grin with him, also.

And suddenly he is standing before me, and we cannot help but do as French men do, hugging and back-slapping. I hold him at arms length to ask, "You drove your motorcar, I believe. How does it do in this weather?"

"Safe as houses, sir. Of course, driving the Renault sedan here in Britain is damned troublesome, and I am required to drive slowly. However, the automobile does well on all types of streets, and I have not terrified one horse." He looks to the women, now fussing with the children, and says quietly, "Perhaps you would like to go out for a spin tomorrow?"

I quickly slide my eyes to Aislyne, whose ears, I have discovered, can hear an insect break wind from another room. I somberly intone, "Hmmmm. The weather, you know...," with an exaggerated rolling of the eyes. Raoul also cuts a glance in Aislyne's direction. "The offer stands, if the opportunity should arise..."

We both smile and simultaneously wink.

Mrs. McIntyre announces she is ready to serve, and we adjourn to the dining room, where a great deal of English-style food is served to French palates. The beef is tastelessly overcooked, the vegetables served sans sauce or seasoning, and the accompanying Christmas Pudding is a bizarre mishmash of booze-soaked bread, fruit and fat. I request it not be 'fired' at the table, much to the chagrin of both the housekeeper and Charles Rex de'Chagny.

I eat because I am hungry, and to fail to do so would alarm my wife. Although abstaining from the potatoes, Aislyne eats heartily to fend off the dour looks she'll get otherwise from Mrs. McIntyre. I notice the de'Chagny men are as inured to the heavy English food as I. Of course, I have an excuse...I have not eaten fine French cuisine or stepped foot in France in 16 years.


End file.
